


A Game of Two Halves

by TheDistantDusk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Sunlit Days Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 03:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20075446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: They’d started doing it at Hogwarts. Back then, though, they hadn’t known it was a kink. (Sunlit Days Challenge 2019)





	A Game of Two Halves

**Author's Note:**

> Sunlit Days Challenge 2019  
Twist: Harry and Ginny go to a Liverpool soccer game.
> 
> Huuuge thanks to Flo, Eslon, Kmi, and Hedwig who helped me understand important football things, and an ENORMOUS thank you to Liza who arranged/organized this challenge! Excellent work! :D

They’d started doing it at Hogwarts. 

Back then, though, they hadn’t known it was a kink. 

They’d spent three sunlit weeks engaging in this weird little… habit…but if Ginny’s being honest, she and Harry have probably been doing it much, _much_ longer. Back then, though, they’d been too inexperienced to know what they were playing at with their banter and whispering and finger-light touches across bare skin.

Now they’re older. Now they shag — and _quite_ a lot, save for the last ten days. Now they’re nearly married. And while they’ve never had an outright conversation on the topic, turning each other on in public has become a downright competition. Nothing is off-limits, either — including family events. Much like the one they're currently attending.

To celebrate Arthur’s fiftieth birthday, Ron booked an executive box at Anfield, home of Liverpool Football Club. Several months ago, this had seemed a brilliant idea; everyone (even Harry and Ginny) had been eager to see the joyful look on Dad’s face, to hear his earnest questions, to watch him marvel over muggle technologies without fear of being overheard by the general public. But at the time, neither Harry _nor_ Ginny had known that said match would fall smack in between Harpies playoffs and a particularly time-consuming case at the Ministry. 

So it goes without saying that Ginny’s… _distracted_. Very distracted. _Extremely_ distracted. And for the first half of the Liverpool match, she’d convinced herself that her general disinterest in football had caused her drift in attention.

After all, Ginny’s a professional athlete. She spends most of her time thinking about quidditch. She devotes hours to analyses on ducking and diving and kicking and swerving; she spends countless days training and stretching and preparing until she’s at peak performance. Thus, when she _is_ off work, sport is the last bloody thing she wants to think about. 

Alas, here is where she has to be a little more honest, though… because boredom with football isn’t the _only_ reason she doesn’t care about the match. 

She shifts uncomfortably in her plush seat, glancing at her fiancé from the corner of her eye. Naturally, they’d been playing their own game since they’d arrived nearly forty-five minutes ago, and although she’s loath to admit it, _Harry’s winning_. In between various familial interferences, amid Bill’s raucous cheers and Ron’s pedantic explanation of fouls, Harry had steadily tortured her — in the most _Harry_ way possible.

The second they’d stepped foot in the executive box, he’d pulled her into a seat in the back row, his fingers dancing over the swell of her arse. When her father hadn’t been pumping them with questions, Harry had taken every chance to lean over and whisper _important football things_ into her ear. She’d erupted in gooseflesh when he’d traced game plays on the skin of her arm, when he’d toyed with the ring on her left hand. 

But the moment she’d hinted at growing arousal by letting out a breathy gasp and rubbing her thighs together, Harry had abruptly withdrawn his hand from her forearm. He’d stopped, right in his tracks, the smirk dangling from his lips the only sign he’d done anything at all. 

To Ginny, this _almost_ qualifies as playing dirty: They haven’t shagged in ages, the bloody sport at hand isn’t even quidditch, and she can’t even use omnioculars to get a better view of the field. She’s not sure who’s expected her to behave for this long, really, under the circumstances; if this little game were being refereed, Harry surely would have a red card. Or a yellow card. Or whatever the hell the cards are. 

Still, Ginny’s never been a graceful loser; giving up before she’s turned the tables is out of the question. So for the past five minutes, she’s been sitting ramrod straight, pretending to focus her attention on the little men running across the field while she waits for her opportunity to strike. 

All the while, Harry’s arm has been draped over her shoulders, his left leg propped on his right. To anyone else, he’d appear a doting, _kind_ fiance who loves spending time with his family. Ginny knows him better, though. His smile isn’t content — it’s _triumphant_. He’s sending her a very, very clear message: _I’ve already won, so you’d might as well concede._

She turns to him with a sad sigh; he’s grown too cocky for his own good. _Poor, poor Harry… _pride always _has_ been his downfall. Surely he _must_ understand that she’s simply biding her time, that she’s used the past five minutes to collect herself, that she’s _waiting_ for the perfect moment. 

And after nearly an hour of torture, the tide is turning in her favor. A tinny-voiced announcer informs them it’s half-time, which means people will get up. It _also_ means that she’ll be able to carry out the next phase of her plan, because Ron (who has lingered close to Harry all day) finally rises from his seat and mutters something about_ checking on the food_. 

Ginny’s no Ravenclaw, but it would take a real numpty to ignore a sign of this magnitude. Granted, she ensures that Ron has left before she starts. _Not getting caught_ is another one of their unspoken rules, much like _never outright kissing_; as much as Ginny enjoys their game, she’d sooner die than reveal it to her family.

Which is why it’s so key that she knows Harry as well as she does. She arches her back and pretends to massage a muscle in her shoulder. Harry reacts immediately — although in the nearly imperceptible _Harry_ way that someone else wouldn’t notice: He merely sits up a smidgen straighter and pretends to focus more on the match. 

Ginny smirks, rotating her shoulders. This will be easier than she thought.

“Getting comfortable, Mrs. Potter?” Harry rumbles, a vein ticking in his jaw.

Ginny sucks in a breath, pressing her thighs together again. She hadn’t expected him to bring _that_ one out. At least not so soon. 

She needs to rally — and fast.

She clears her throat and adjusts in her seat until their knees are touching. “You’re rather comfortable using that title,” she ponders, tracing her finger tip down Harry’s forearm. Light touch has driven him mad since he was sixteen — and based on the way he’s tensed beside her, his Adam’s apple bobbing, it hasn’t failed her yet. 

When her nails graze a tendon, and she _feels_ rather than _sees _Harry swallow… and deems it safe to move in for the next phase of the attack. “A lot can happen in two months,” Ginny purrs, leaning to brush her breasts against Harry’s arm. “By then, I might’ve become _Mrs. Thomas_ instead!”

But Harry just laughs at this and leans in, too; Ginny feels an irrational surge of disappointment that her attempt at making him jealous hasn’t worked.

“You have a point there, Mrs. Potter. I’m not terribly concerned, though.”

“No?”

“Nah,” he replies, his voice so casual you’d think he was discussing laundry. Then, in a flash, he shifts until his lips are caressing the shell of her ear — and Ginny already knows she’s in trouble, even before he places his palm on the seat, right in the gap between her thighs. 

“Cause let’s be reasonable,” Harry adds, his voice dropping to a growl. “We both know how badly you want _Potter_ on the back of your kit while I fuck you in the locker room.”

_Fuckkkk._

Ginny exhales raggedly, her eyes fluttering closed. _Merlin_, she hates it when he’s right. She also hates it when he thinks he’s pulled one over on her — which Harry definitely thinks he’s done. 

Fortunately, it’s been ten days for both of them. It shouldn’t take… _much_. So she clears her throat, sits up straighter, and reaches for the elastic of her hair. Just a little tug, and — _yesss_. Her hair springs free, cascading down her shoulders; a stray red tendril brushes against Harry’s arm, just as Ginny had intended — and she milks every bloody second of it. She tosses her head back, raking her fingers through it, refusing to stop until— 

“_Unfair_,” Harry moans to her right. It comes out somewhere between a plea and a whine, and a wry grin dashes across Ginny’s face. He has a thing for her hair: _He_ knows it, _she_ knows it, and she reckons everyone else knows it, because while Harry Potter is good at many things, he’s absolute shite at pretending he’s not turned on. As if on cue, he clears his throat and steals a furtive glance around them before deeming it safe to make a necessary trouser adjustment. 

_Good_, Ginny thinks, arching an eyebrow as he squirms in his seat. _He’s learned to keep his hands to himself._

But as uncomfortable as Harry is, he hasn’t _quite_ surrendered… not _yet_. He’s close, though. _So_ close. All it would take, in fact, would be— 

“FOOD!” Ron bellows from somewhere to Ginny’s left. She releases a string of violent swears as she and Harry jolt apart, each jumping about a meter in the air. _Fucking hell_. Ginny loves her brother, really, she does — but she’d long ago concluded that she doesn’t always _like_ him.

And now is definitely, _definitely_ one of those times. 

Harry seizes upon her brother’s interruption as she’d known he would. In a flash, he’s already leapt to his feet and rushed to accept the tray of food. His strategy is simple (and not to mention transparent): He’s getting as far away from her as he can, hoping the distance will… cool his ardor. Of course, Harry also knows he’s left her in a smoldering puddle, all while maintaining his wide-eyed facade of innocence. _And helpfulness._

Ginny doesn’t exactly mind the view, though. Even if she knows Harry’s playing it up. She admires his backside as he and Ron travel through the executive box to distribute the fancy ordered food for everyone, and though they haven’t said a word, Harry _knows _she’s staring. 

He takes his time, too. Which makes it worse. He painstakingly chooses snacks for everyone in their row: A packet of crisps for Bill, a fruit cup for Victoire (who’s off getting a nappy change), a bottle of water for Fleur, who’s still trying to ‘_return to ‘er figure_.’ Harry takes _so_ long, actually, and bends over _so often_ that Ginny begins to feel a bit deflated. Halftime’s nearly over, and she’s wondering if she shouldn’t have waited to whip out the elastic hair move. But just as she’s kicking herself for not paying closer attention to the game clock, Harry finally turns around… and a catlike grin creeps across her face. 

Because Harry’s coming back to his seat. And he’s holding a _massive_ ice cream sundae, complete with two spoons. 

_Poor Harry_, she thinks again as he settles in beside her. The game’s beginning again and everyone’s returning to their seats, but based on his smug smile, he _still _thinks he’ll win. Harry’s surely planned to perform many unspeakable acts on that ice cream spoon to tempt her into conceding… but she’s got something up her sleeve. (And not that Harry’s oral skills aren’t spectacular — because they_ are_. He’s _world fucking class_ at that, if she’s being honest… but she also knows that her fiancé has a particular weakness. One she plans to exploit.)

She’ll let Harry have his fun, though. _For now_. He leans back in the seat and lifts the spoon, licking the ice cream and chocolate away with a few passes of his tongue. His jaw moves in fascinating ways, and she knows what he _really_ wants to do… what they _both_ want him to do. But Ginny’s not going down without a fight.

The moment Harry returns the spoon to the dish for the third time, a fight breaks out on the field — a beautiful, _fortuitous_ fight that seems like quite the scandal. Everyone gasps and rushes to the glass for a better look, pushing over each other in their haste, and Ginny seizes her chance. 

“Mm, can I have some?” she asks. Harry snaps his head from the ruckus in front of them, but he’s too taken with it all to expect what she’s got planned; he lets out a startled moan as she shifts forward — and in one swift motion, she brushes her breasts against Harry’s arm. And plunges his fingers into the dish. 

“Oops,” she says, wincing. “Seems I need to… clean you up!” 

And with that, Ginny bats her eyelashes, reaches for Harry’s hand, and slides his ice cream-covered fingers between her lips. 

His response is instantaneous. And perfect. Harry grits his jaw as his eyes flutter shut, as her tongue flicks and swirls over his fingers. They both know what she’s reminding them of — what she’s mimicking. She’s harkening back to a particularly happy hour at Hogwarts when they’d been enjoying a picnic. When he’d gotten some treacle tart on his fingers, she’d shoved them into her mouth, just like she’s doing now…

Harry’s a bit better at containing himself than he’d been at 16. But not much. As is, he’s staring at her through heavy-lidded eyes as her tongue darts out to clean off _all_ the ice cream — or at least this is the excuse she’d give anyone who approached. She flicks her tongue across his knuckle in earnest, and Harry releases that deep, primal growl she loves so much. Victory is so close she can taste it. It’s a heady feeling, being _this close_ to winning — and she’s bloody basking in it. _Yesss_, she thinks, hollowing her cheeks… _she’s won_. And as her fiance stares at her, a delirious look of arousal and resignation in his eyes, Ginny grins around his fingers. Because she’d might as well be gripping the snitch from mid-air. With every shuddering exhale of his chest, she can almost feel the cool metal against her palm, the fluttering wings beating against her closed fingers… and she’s close… _so close_… 

Harry’s Adams’s apple bobs one last time, and when his lips part, she knows — just knows — he’s about to give her the confirmation she needs. _He’s going to give up._

But Ginny _really_ should have remembered her earlier musings on pride… and she also should have remembered that Harry knows her better than literally anyone else. Karma has a funny way of surprising you, eh?

_Just_ as Harry’s about to concede, just as she can taste victory as surely as she can taste chocolate, a lilting French accent pierces through the air, followed by a tiny giggle… 

_No_. Ginny freezes, clutching at Harry’s arm, but it’s no use… it’s no bloody use. Almost as if she’s watching the events unfold from far away, Ginny stares as Fleur and Victoire appear behind Harry’s shoulder. Her stomach sinks to her toes, gooseflesh erupting absolutely everywhere, because— 

_No_.

Ginny gasps, her eyes wide in horror, as three things happen in quick succession, much faster than she can run interference: First, Harry’s fingers drop from her mouth. Second, he wipes his hand on his trousers, leaping to his feet… and third, he holds out his hands to—

_Nonononono_. He wouldn’t _fucking_ dare. He wouldn’t...

_But he’s doing it,_ she numbly realizes. _He’s going there. _

And with that, Harry turns to face her, a smug smirk perched on his lips… lips he then bows to the crown of Victoire’s baby-soft blonde curls. A beaming Fleur shoots Ginny a wistful look from over Harry’s shoulder, but Ginny can only shudder, her whole body rigid, as his muscled forearms press the baby to his front. 

_Fucking Merlin_… 

A tendon juts across Harry’s arm as he jostles the nine-month-old like it’s the most casual thing in the world… he easily turns and chats with Fleur, even as he bounces Victoire. It’s so _natural_, so _fluid_, and Ginny doesn’t know why, but that’s even sexier — that he’s capable of talking about boring things like Ministry paperwork or cauldron bottoms. While he’s _holding an infant_. 

Fuck.

Ginny’s mouth goes dry, and she numbly realizes she’s been staring slack-jawed for the past several minutes. But really, where the hell had he _learned_ that little trick? Who’d taught him that one-legged shift from foot to foot, his legs bending slightly at the knees? Well, Ginny doesn’t know _who_ his instructor was — but she’s torn between wanting to kiss this stranger and wanting to punish them. And then, an even worse thought occurs to her: Is it possible Harry’s just learned this on his own?

She can’t recall him being so natural with Teddy… but it’s been quite a while since Teddy was this small. Teddy’s a toddler now, almost too big to be held — and certainly big enough to have objections about _being_ held. Has Harry always possessed this secret skill? Ginny doesn’t know… but she can’t deny that Victoire seems quite content in his arms. Her niece has settled beneath Harry’s chin, her blue eyes filled with wonder, her mouth releasing the tiniest baby sigh...

In retrospect, perhaps Ginny could have stayed like that exact space, caught in some limbo between losing and winning. If only Harry hadn’t done something _unintentional_. And with said unintentional move, he absolutely scores a screamer, just as a Liverpool player does, too. 

Because the instant before the crowd erupts in raucous cheers, Harry’s lashes flutter shut, a lazy smile drifting across his face. _He’s at peace_. Totally, utterly happy. 

_And Ginny fucking loses it. _

She’s up in a half-second, her pride abandoned as quickly as her seat. She hasn't outright told Harry about this little… predicament… with him holding babies. Like everything else, though, he’s inferred it on his own. He must’ve seen the dreamy look steal across her features when he’d held Victoire, or perhaps he’d noticed the way she’d gripped his hand afterwards as something primal had moved in her chest. 

Whatever he’d noticed, though, was pure evil — mostly because she knows that he hadn’t even intended the worst of it. _Like having the nerve to look completely content while he’d held a baby_. 

To Ginny, this means one thing: Harry has a secret weapon, something up his sleeve that he might unleash at _any _time. And there’s nothing she’ll ever be able to do about that, because even_ he_ doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Harry _does_ know, though, what that Ginny’s blazing expression means as she takes three heated steps towards him, her chest heaving. Fortunately, the universe hasn’t turned against her completely, either — because as soon as Ginny reaches Harry, Liverpool scores a massive goal; the executive box erupts as loudly as the rest of the crowd. It’s easy for him to hand Victoire back to her mummy under the guise of protecting her from the noise, but Ginny doesn’t miss the way Harry tenses and swallows, his eyes darting to her flushed chest. Fleur accepts the baby with a smile — but not before she shoots Ginny a knowing wink from over her shoulder. 

Still, the look on Fleur’s face says it all: _I’ll cover. _And with that, Ginny almost forgives her sister-in-law for handing Harry a baby in the bloody first place.

The screamer from Liverpool proves a perfectly timed distraction; the joyous celebrations go on for ages, much longer than excitement over quidditch goals. The Weasleys leap to their feet, their cries echoing far louder than anything Ginny might whisper. So with that, she grips her fiancé’s hands in hers, stands on her tiptoes, and leans into his ear — all in such a rapid ferocity that even _Harry_ looks a little surprised. 

“The snitch is yours,” she concedes breathily, her voice drowned out by the surrounding applause. Various family members stomp and clap around them as Harry’s body freezes, a roar tumbling from his lips — but Harry doesn’t need to be told again. Before Ginny knows which way is up, he’s tugging hand towards the door, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark… and even though she’s _definitely_ lost this round, Ginny can’t help but take his low groan as a consolation prize.

* * *

Two minutes later, they stumble into the loo stall in a frantic blur of hands and mouth. As always, Harry handles the magic; they both know his focus (while randy as hell) is much better than hers. _Which isn’t saying much_. Nonetheless, he takes out his wand, locks the door from over his shoulder, and performs a cleaning spell, all while she kisses his neck. 

“Thank Merlin for private loos,” Harry groans, setting his wand down on the counter as her hands slide beneath his shirt. 

Ginny scoffs and busies herself with his trousers. “Thank Merlin for _cheating to win_, you mean!”

Harry releases a chuckle that becomes a moan as she unbuckles his jeans and slips her hand inside the flap of his boxers.

“Well, _Mrs. Potter_,” Harry manages, even as she grips him in her fist and gives a tight squeeze. Ginny leans in to nibble below his jaw, beginning slow, even strokes up and down — the sort designed to torture him. 

“Fuckkk… _ahhh —_ let’s not be a sore loser now!” His voice breaks on the end, just as her thumb finds the bead of wetness at the tip of his cock. _Good_, Ginny thinks as Harry begins thrusting into her hand. _It’s about time she’s got the bloody upper hand. So to speak._

Then Harry lets out a grunt, his hand jutting out to still her wrist. She peers up at him through her lashes, but Ginny already knows why he’s stopped.

“If you want to have fun too,” he admits, chest heaving, “you have to stop that.” 

Ginny smirks and presses herself against him, relishing in Harry’s shudder as the fabric from her shirt grazes his cock. “And how’ve _you_ kept yourself busy the past ten days?”

Harry’s eyes flash with mirth — but that’s absolutely the only warning she gets before he’s sinking to his knees, pulling her trousers and knickers down. Ginny hisses and arches her back, preparing to grip his thick black hair… but it seems he has other plans. 

“_Later_, love,” Harry promises, pressing a kiss to her thigh, then with a wink, he rises to his feet and kisses her again. _And thank Merlin,_ Ginny thinks as he grips her arse in his palms and steps back until she’s sitting on the counter, until his cock is just brushing against her heat… _because_ _she loves it when he takes what he wants. _

Harry’s hand dips to her clit as he leaves a row of kisses along her jaw, sucking and nibbling as he moves, but Ginny’s just about had enough torture for one day. So with that, she quirks an eyebrow, wraps her legs around his waist, and deliberately slides him inside her in one fluid movement. 

They both release ragged moans at the contact, their chests heaving although they haven’t even begun. Harry’s eyes are slammed shut, his fingers grip her arse with an almost bruising intensity. But Ginny quite _likes _an almost bruising intensity... so she doesn’t mind. She loves it, actually, how he still freezes every single time he’s fully inside of her. Like he can’t quite believe his luck.

A second later, Harry’s faces relaxes; she knows that look well, too. He’s pulled himself back from the brink, just in the nick of time. She’d be content to keep teasing him, really, but then he opens his eyes — and they’re filled with so much passion and intensity that they take her breath away. 

Ginny’s lips curl in resignation, but she doesn’t fight it. Harry doesn’t just want to fuck; he wants to _make love_... even in a stadium toilet. 

“Been too long,” he murmurs, confirming her thoughts. “_Too long_ without you, and—”

Ginny interrupts him with a kiss. “_Later_, love,” she mimics, locking her legs around his waist. If given the chance, Harry would wax poetic about his feelings — even right here, right now. 

He chuckles, but complies with a sheepish grin. They both know they’ll have time for all that later — for whispers and caresses and confessions of longing. Now, though, things are more pressing; like always, they’re on the same page. 

Harry stares at her again, bracing his palms on his hips, and without breaking eye contact for a single second, he begins even, measured thrusts… the sort designed to push her straight over the brink. A moan falls from her lips as he grazes against her clit with the base of his cock… _and this_, Ginny thinks, beginning to whimper in earnest, _is one benefit of knowing each other very, very well… _

He knows exactly how to hold her in place so that the hits her clit with every snap of his hips. He knows the perfect pattern to swirl and lift to get her off the fastest. But most importantly, Harry knows what to do that doesn’t involve sex at all — and these things make all the difference. So as he continues thrusting and swirling inside her, gripping her arse, he leans in to her ear and starts in on the familiar litany of panting whispers.

“Fuck, Ginny, you get me so hard," Harry moans, his breath stirring the tendrils around her ears. She mewls, her arms draped around his neck, and they _both_ know she’s already close. “I thought about you every day,” he adds, his thrusts becoming more erratic, “about being inside you, _just like this_.” 

She answers with a moan as he pulls back to stare into her eyes, as his hips provide the perfect friction against her clit… and _just_ as the first ripples of her orgasm take her over, he utters five words that absolutely shatter her, right on the spot.

“_Come for me_, Mrs. Potter,” Harry growls into her ear, surging inside her a final time — and with that, Ginny _shatters_. She cries out a garbled version of his name, throwing her head back as the world explodes around her. It’s an orgasm that goes on so long she scarcely remembers who she is… the sort that leaves her weak and panting as incoherent words tumble from her lips. _I love you_ is the only phrase she recognizes as the waves crest again and again, but the second she says it, she feels Harry reach his peak, too. 

With a roar, he stiffens and spills himself inside her, and Ginny sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. Even now, _she’s amazed _she has this effect on him. It never ceases to astound her that he cares for her as much as she cares for him, that her orgasms _always_ trigger his… and when he finally lifts his head to look at her again, she’s not surprised that his eyes look a little misty.

Ginny offers him a tender kiss, but she knows from the strain across Harry’s brow that he’s probably rather _uncomfortable_ in this position. So she winces in apology, unwraps her legs from his waist and steps down onto the cool tile floor. With that, they untangle their limbs and clean themselves off, preparing to return to her family as if nothing happened. 

“Think I’ll keep these,” Harry says a moment later. She turns around, confused… but _of course_. Harry’s casually leaning on the sink counter, her white lace knickers dangling from the end of his finger. “This _is_ my trophy, I reckon.” 

_“Fine_.” She shrugs and tugs her trousers on, making a great show of shimmying her arse in the process. Harry pointedly clears his throat as she does — which she’d intended; this victory will be much more uncomfortable for him, after all.

Ginny shoots him a final wink as they lace their hands together and push the door open. An easy grin has returned to Harry’s face, his hair looking only slightly messier than normal; they look relatively composed, she thinks, for a couple who just shagged in the loo.

“Ah, look!” Harry says as they turn a corner. A television screen down the corridor displays the score of the game.

“D’you think Liverpool have scored again?” he asks, swinging their hands, “Or maybe—?”

But Ginny interrupts him with a sigh, stopping dead in her tracks.

“I’m serious, though!” Harry says earnestly, nodding to the screen. “Your dad would love to see them win, and—"

Then, in a verbatim repetition of what she’d done after he’d asked her out all those years ago, Ginny turns to face him, drapes her arms around his neck, and gives him a plain stare.  “Harry,” she says, her lips twitching. “You _must know_ by now that don’t give a flying fuck about the match.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Eeep this is the smuttiest thing I've written in a while! Hope you enjoyed, though! :D
> 
> Noticing should be updating soon, but go ahead and follow me on Tumblr (same name) if you'd like more bizarre updates! ;)


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